“I believe his lordship keeps his private things—”
But she had already opened the box.
She saw a bound book which she instantly recognized as one of her girlhood diaries. It had two letters stuck in the middle of its pages, acting as placeholders, and was nestled in a bed of white silk. She touched the cover of the book and then flipped it open and looked at the entry facing the letters.
Oh, oh, he is so handsome! I am sure he knows he is handsome, though. He is quite arrogant in the most delicious way.
Her last diary. He had it. Her last entry. He had read it.
The two folded letters tucked into the diary were both addressed to Phineas in her own hand. They must be the only two missives she had ever written to her husband—the note arranging the meeting in Hyde Park the day before their wedding and that formal and dismissive letter, telling him she didn’t want his attentions, good or bad.
And the white silk. She knew this lace. It was her nightdress she had left on the floor of his bedchamber when she had gone to have her one night with him in her father’s house.
It was a box of her. Her husband had a secret box of her, tucked away in his closet.
She closed the cover of her diary and closed the lid of the box.
She turned to her husband’s valet.
“Trousers? Tell me about his trousers.”
“He needs some new ones, my lady. And not only because of Miss Lavinia but also because of all the mucking about he does with his tenants now.”
“Yes. Four new pair, I think. But don’t dispose of the old ones. Have him wear those when he goes out to muck about, as you put it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
After she and Dashwood had completed their inventory, she made her way down to the morning room to copy her penciled list in ink.
She sat at her secretary for a long time.
Then she got out a fresh piece of foolscap, took up her quill, dipped it in ink again, and wrote a letter.
Her husband came and found her reading in the drawing room before the dinner gong. He was only partially dressed for the meal, his cravat hanging around his neck, his waistcoat unbuttoned. His face was a little red. His eyes, worried.
“Darling.”
She put her finger in her book to hold her place. “Yes?”
“Darling, Dashwood just told me—I mean, when he was dressing me, he mentioned you had opened my box and I’ve wanted to tell you but it never seemed the right time, and I’m such a coward, and I didn’t want you angry with me so I kept putting it off—”
“Why would I be angry with you?”
He looked taken aback. “Your diary, Caro. I read it.”
“Yes?”
“I found it in the library of your brother’s town house. And I read it to find out about you and then I used what I read to get you to marry me. It was duplicitous and it was awful and my motives were selfish and I hope you will forgive me.”
She stood. “Yes, I forgive you.”
“You do?”
“I might not have kept my word and married you if you hadn’t read it and found out my silly girlish wishes. All those roses.”
“I hope it wasn’t just the roses that made you marry me, darling.”
“Of course not.”
